


On the Partaking of Spirits

by laughablyunimportant



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - The Hangover Fusion, Drinking, F/M, Ghosts, Memory Loss, Post-Sburb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-06-15
Packaged: 2018-06-04 13:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6659509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughablyunimportant/pseuds/laughablyunimportant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't the first time Roxy's woken up in a hotel room with no memory of how she got there, and it probably won't be her last, but it's sure as fuck the messiest blackout situation she's ever had to deal with. She has enough problems wrestling with this banshee of a headache, she doesn't need all kinds of regrets and fuzzy memories ghosting up out of nowhere and making her actually <em>deal</em> with shit. </p><p>[Posted in response to an HSO prompt to do a mashup of The Hangover and some kind of ghost movie. ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Partaking of Spirits

You wake up to a pounding headache.

Wait, no. That's the door.

You're quick to your feet then, rolling out of bed and stumbling around the oddly opulent room, trying to pull together some semblance of an outfit and looking for alternative exits. This isn't the first time you've woken up in a hotel room with no memory of how you got there, and it probably won't be your last, but it's sure as fuck the messiest scene you've ever left. There's shattered glass in the entrance, maybe from the full-length closet mirror, something like lipstick smeared against the wall in large swaths, the curtains ripped and hanging limp from the wall, the television with a lamp through it—holy fuck how did you manage that—and what appears to be scattered pages from the bible slowly sifting down from a tilting ceiling fan, whirling above in a lazy fashion. The smell of brandy hangs heavy in the air, and even if that pounding at the door has gotten suspiciously quiet, you find time to go hunting for the minibar, which, yep, is empty.

"Shit," you say, startled when an answering grunt comes from behind you.

You spin around to see John rising from the ground, having apparently just tumbled out of the same bed you were sleeping in. Naked. Ohmygod John Egbert is naked and he just got out of the bed you were in _naked_.

You'd take a moment to think about this, except your brain is muggy-thick with hangover, you still don't have any memory of last night, and whoops, that click means they just managed to get the front door open.

"C'mon," you hiss at him, "We have to get out of here!" You swoop down to snatch a pair of fuzzy hotel slippers from the ground and throw them at him, not bothering to see if he's caught them before you spin back toward the door, suck in a deep breath, and scream at the top of your lungs as you make a running leap over the broken glass.

You're sort of a badass. No big deal.

You don't make it quite all the way, glass crunching loudly under your shoes when you land, but at least your screaming and flailing forced the hotel security to take a few steps back. John's following close enough behind that he slips through the opening you've created, and just like that the two of you are dashing down the hall, laughing like a pair of maniacs.

. . . . . . . .

A drawn-out chase up and down elevators and stairs, across floors and buildings, and down the street later, the two of you duck into an alleyway between a coffee shop and a small gym, breathing hard and grinning from ear to ear. John tugs at his robe (he must've snatched it up when you were busy screaming and running), straightening it, though there's really no way to make a robe that shows off that much leg look respectable. 

"What was that all about?" He says, eyes too big and full of sparkle, and your grin fades a bit when you remember that you actually have no idea. So you do what you always do, give him a shrug, run a hand through your hair, and say, "Let's get a drink."

Coffee shops don't serve alcohol, but the convenience store across the corner does, and a few minutes later you're nestled in a booth at the café, pouring vodka into a cup of black. John just holds the drink you got him, hands wrapped around the warm mug without lifting it, looking uncomfortable under the stares of the other patrons. 

"So no big surprise here," you say, "but I sorta got blackout drunk last night. Wanna tell me what went down, or should I say, who?" You give him a saucy wink, but unease still rumbles in your gut. You didn't sleep with John last night, did you? You take a swig of coffee, appreciating the path it burns down your throat, not appreciating the thought that follows the trail it blazes: _Would that be such a bad thing?_

No shit it would be a bad thing. John was your Karkat’s deal, as far as you heard, or maybe Strider's brother, or maybe Terezi's…? Whatever the case, John was taken goods, and even if those goods were super-fine and mostly naked and right damn there, first and foremost, John was your friend. You weren't gonna screw up everyone's tenuous relationships together by bangin that babe.

Even if he did look just like his dad.

 

You zoned out a little there, but he's just blinking owlishly at you, mouth hanging a little open, so you think you must not have missed too much. "Izyer mouth broken, cuz I can kiss it en make it bettuh." He goes white instead of red, but at least he answers this time, a mumbled, "I don't remember what happened either” making you sigh.

"Alright," you say, pulling out your purse. "You ever seen the movie Hangover?"

He nods, eyes brightening. "Oh yeah, I really liked that one! Dad said I wasn't allowed to go, but Dave said I'd be a pussy if I missed out on it, whoops I mean, uh, chicken, sorry, I'd be a chicken if I didn't see it, so I went to the theatre myself and bought a ticket for some dumb kiddie movies for babies and snuck in, it was awesome!" His face twisted a bit. "Uh, except some of the parts were, sort of gross. Why, do you—"

You cut him off by upending your purse on the table. "Well today's you're lucky day, because we got ourselves a trail to follow."

. . . . . . . . . . .

"What we were doing at an ice-skating rink?" 

You shrug, dragging your finger against the glass. "Dunno. Maybe we needed some ice to douse the sexual inferno that follows you everywhere." He gives you a little chuckle, still too-stiff and too far away in that manner that says he knows something you don't. 

"Yeah Roxy, I'm so hot I'm surprised I didn't melt a hole right through the ice. Geeze, you're so dumb!" You flip your hair out of your eyes, leaning in close to make his eyes widen and send him stumbling back a step, but then someone big and authoritarian-looking shouts, and you take off running.

. . . . . . . . . .

"What even happened here?" John's voice is a hushed whisper, and you're not sure you can even answer him. You clutch the tiny paper ice-cream cone wrapper in your fist a little tighter, sending up a silent prayer that you and John had nothing to do with this.

"Coming to you live at the corner of Marconi and Greenback, the scene of last night's flash mob gone wrong—" the woman's voice startles you, and you scoot away from her, professional business attire and tone marking her as a reporter, even if you'd somehow managed to miss the microphone and cameraman. She drones on about how, at 11:11 PM last night, patrons and workers of this Mcdonald's burst into sudden song, providing entertainment and harmony for all those there to see. But everything went wrong when the hoodlums attacked.

John snorts next to you, and you grin back, though you're not sure why that made him laugh.

In the confusion, two teenagers hopped over the counter and began tossing out free food. When employees caught on that they weren't part of the act, it was already too late. A crowd had gathered and, amongst the chaos, the two teenagers escaped, taking armfuls of food with them. In their absence, the crowd grew out of control and burned the building to the ground.

John's somber next to you as the woman begins to describe the two teens, a boy and a girl, and asks for any information on their whereabouts. "Come on," you say. "I know where we headed next."

. . . . . . . . . . .

He figures it out four blocks before you get to your destination. "A soup kitchen." You glance back and give him a smile, along with an extra sassy sashay to your hips. "Yeeeep. Nothing in my purse about it, but where else would we have gone with all that food?" 

"Geeze, you really wouldn't even know what to do with that food but give it away, would you?"

"Maybe I was cravin' something other than mcnuggies," you sing-song, getting twenty feet down the sidewalk before you realize he's not following anymore. You turn and trudge back to him, a little peeved he messed up your rhythm, trying to judge by the headache blossoming again at the base of your skull if you need another drink or not.

"Roxy," he starts, worrying at his lip with those big ol' buck teeth of his. "What happened last night?"

You heave a sigh. "That's what we're _tryin_ to figure out. Geeze," you mock, "You'd think you'd be better at this, bein Janey's poppop and all."

"I think we kissed," he says, and it sends ice slithering down your spine. "At the skating rink. We kissed, and started making out on the ice, and caused a big huge pile-up in the middle of the rink. Management had to come out in cleats to kick us out."

"Yeah?" You still don't really remember it, but what he says feels true. 

"Yeah." He rubs at the back of his neck, and you wait for it, the "It was a mistake" speech, the "We were drunk," the, "I like you as a friend," or worst of all, "That was fun, but this doesn't mean we're going out or anything." She didn't peg him as the last one, but then, douchebags came in all shapes and sizes.

"That was fun," he finally says. "But maybe we should just stay friends."

You were expecting it, which means you should have been prepared, but no, that just makes the tears come all the faster. His smile drops, reaching out a hand for you, but you've already spun and run down the street, his hollered "Roxy, wait!" small and distant behind you.

. . . . . . . . . . .

They cheer your entrance at the soup kitchen, and one of the patrons has a bottle of something vile-smelling that dulls your thoughts suitably, so when John appears before you with puppy-eyes and a pinched expression, you just give him a smile and a wink, telling him the table's full, why not sit on your lap?

"Roxy," he says, "It's not like that."

No, you say, it never is.

He heaves a sigh. "I really like you, but—"

"Not like that." It comes out brittle and high, but, whatever. Another drink will fix that.

"I don't know what like!" He throws his hands in the air, aggressive gesture startling you. "You're really cool, and funny, and really, really hot, and I like hanging out with you, and sometimes I think it would be nice if we kissed. But you're also Rose's sort-of mom, and maybe my step-mom? And I didn't even think you liked boys until last night, or if you did you liked Jake because everybody likes Jake, and—"

You pull yourself to wobbly feet, most of what he says lost in the beginnings of a nice buzz. "Kiss me."

He looks like you punched him in the gut. "I can't."

"Kiss me!" You're practically screeching, and the whole place is quiet and everyone's staring but you don't care, because John just looks so fucking sad and all you want to do is give him your heart, but he won't take it.

Just like everybody else.

"Come on," he says. "Let's go get Rose."

You pull up with a start. "Rose?"

He looks stricken for a second, no time to respond before you say, "You remember what happened last night!"

He puts his arms up, backing away as you advance on him. "Look, we were really drunk, and it'd be best if we just forgot, okay? It's not anyone's fault, my dad's got insurance, we can just—"

"Excuse me?" You turn your head to find one of the workers giving you that concerned, dealing-with-a-rabid-animal look. "We'd like it if you ah, left the premises." Her eyes flick from you to John, standing in the doorway, and even though something angry and bitter clutches at your throat, you give a tight, short nod, stomping through the door after John.

The two of you stand down the street from the shelter, block of air between you frigid. "Guess the trail's gone cold," John says, but you ignore him, starting down the street. 

"Where are you going?" he calls after you, loping to catch up. 

"You said insurance," you say, picking up your pace. "Car, home, health. We don't look like we had a car accident, if we'd gone to one of our houses no one would have let us leave drunk, and health—" you falter. "Rose." You break into a run. "Oh fuck, _Rose_."

. . . . . . . . . . .

Running all the way to the hospital probably wasn't the best use of your resources, but you weren't really thinking clearly. Neither is John, since he's still following you. You'd sock him if you had the time to spare, but Rose, Rose is in the hospital and John knew and he didn't tell you and you have to get to her _right now_.

He said she's fine, but when you pressed he clammed up, and that doesn’t seem like a good sign. It seems like an even worse sign when you enter the hospital and the receptionist knows who you are. You stop thinking altogether when they point you to the morgue.

You feel numb, feet slapping against tile, lights bright and surreal overhead. You know where the morgue is somehow, which tells you more than anything else that you were there last night. You push through the doors, room too cold, too antiseptic, heads lifting to see you.

Rose's head lifting to see you.

You breathe a sigh of relief that flees almost immediately when her eyes meet yours, grief hitting you fast and hard, and you realize that there's a slab pulled out before her, a body on that slab, sallow skin and dark hair under a thin sheet of paper.

Sallow, alcohol-poisoned skin.

John is standing next to Rose, face sad and pained, and you suddenly think to wonder, when did he change into normal clothes?

Why didn't you notice?

"It's not your fault," he says. Rose doesn't turn to look at him. Doesn't even know he's there. 

Because he's not. Because he's on the slab in front of her. "Roxy," she says.

You spin around and run. You don't remember last night, but you think you know why you would have wanted to forget it.


End file.
